


That is not the butterfly you're looking for

by Caers



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:21:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caers/pseuds/Caers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes takes Watson home to meet his brother on the pretext of needing help with a case...</p>
            </blockquote>





	That is not the butterfly you're looking for

"You could have sent me a telegram, Sherlock, but you came to visit. And you brought him with you, which was entirely unnecessary. I can only assume this is your version of introducing him to the family," Sherringford comments in his quiet, even voice, without looking up from his textbook.

"I did not bring him home to meet the family," Sherlock denies hotly, pacing the study, puffing incessantly on his pipe. "He's met Mycroft already, anyway."

"And now you seek the approval of your eldest brother." Sherringford made a note on the margin of the page and Sherlock made a distressed noise at the action. "Really, I do understand, Sherlock. You needn't deny it so vigorously. I knew there would never be an heir to continue the name, if that's what concerns you. But I always did despair of you finding someone you could be content with."

"You never seem to voice such concerns about Mycroft," Sherlock points out and all but throws himself in to the armchair opposite his brother.

"Mycroft has no interest in any romantic liaison, as you well know." Sherringford sighs and looks up, finally, his smile slight, but gentle. "Sherlock. Is it really so distressing to you that you should feel this way toward another man? I realise the implications in city life are more severe than they are here, but surely there are very few who would inspect your life so closely as long as you’re discreet."

Sherlock dismisses the notion with a snort and a wave of his hand. "I'm more distressed that you so casually write in your books," he remarks. "Gender is nothing of use to me, since I have no desire to procreate. Could you see me trying to raise a child? I shudder at the thought." He falls silent for a long while, and Sherringford also maintains his silence, and also his calm gaze on his brother.

"He is my friend," Sherlock finally continues. "I have precious little experience with that, and I do not want to endanger this, now that I have it. And my experience with a romantic relationship with anyone is equally limited to all but the most casual assignations. I would have no idea how to combine the two emotions."

"We all struggle with that," Sherringford says with a laugh and returns his attention to his book. "Whether you know it or not, Sherlock, you've brought Dr Watson home to meet the family, and I can tell you that we approve, most heartily. Where you go from there is entirely up to you."

"I'm sure Watson has some say in the matter," Sherlock says, rather petulantly really, as he can see the truth in what his brother has said and he doesn't particularly like having it pointed out to him.

"Dr Watson is waiting patiently for you to open your stubbornly closed eyes, brother," Sherringford states. "And he is far more aware of his emotions on this matter than you are."

Sherlock glances toward the closed door of the study to make sure Watson hasn’t snuck up on the conversation, even though he’d announced he was retiring hours earlier. “What do you mean?” he asks his brother, leaning forward with a slight frown. “Has he said something to you?”

Sherringford sighs and looks up from his book again. “Sherlock, I would no more betray the confidences of Dr Watson than I would anything you may say to me on the matter. You really should talk to him.”

Sherlock slumped back in the chair. “Yes, well, I suppose that’s what I get for asking advice from the consummate bachelor.”

“I am a bachelor because there are very few men around here who would appreciate my attentions and I rarely venture forth from the grounds. At least I have a few relationships to my name, instead of experimenting on and then discarding those who cross my path.”

“No one has ever held my attentions quite so firmly before.”

“And now we return to the beginning of this conversation. I’m not rehashing this, Sherlock. I’d like to read my book instead, if that’s quite alright with you.”

“That? It’s ancient. Half of it’s out of date already,” Sherlock says, leaning forward to take the book from his brother. “Anyway, the butterflies all die in the end.”

“You really do try the patience of a saint,” Sherringford says, anger creeping into his voice. He stands and takes the book back. “If I wanted up to date information I would order the journals from the appropriate scientific organisations. I happen to enjoy the novelty of reading these ancient things.”

“No need to get so upset,” Sherlock says, frowning. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course you did, you always do. I have patience with you, brother, but even that only extends so far. I am going to bed to read in peace, although given your history as a child you never respected that boundary either. I am hoping that, as an adult, you have rid yourself of the habit of barging into my rooms in the middle of the night.” He turns and walks out then, and Sherlock watches him go.

“Goodnight!” Sherlock finally calls when he hears Sherrigford’s step on the stairs. “You could have shut the door,” he mutters under his breath, knowing full well that it was left open deliberately to annoy him.

He gets up and taps out his pipe into the fireplace, then sets it aside and withdraws his cigarette case from his jacket, slung over another chair. He’s just lighting one when Watson steps into the study. Sherlock pauses, taking in the sight. It’s one that’s never grown old for him, the rare times when he’s managed to catch Watson when he has just woken, looking sleepy, his hair ruffled, stubble on his chin and around his mustache.

“Just saw your brother going to bed,” Watson comments with barely a glance toward Sherlock as he sits in Sherringford’s recently vacated chair.

Sherlock takes a deep drag of his cigarette and walks over. “Yes. He’s just as sensitive now as he always was when it comes to his books.” He offers a cigarette to Watson, who refuses. Watson rarely smokes these days, and Sherlock is always there to offer one when he does. To see Watson put to his lips something that Sherlock has crafted with his own hands twists something in his gut, makes his fingers tingle as if they were at Watson’s lips instead of the cigarette.

“You could get me a brandy,” Watson says, his voice still rough from sleep, and Sherlock moves to fulfill the request, though he would rather Watson’s voice not be smoothed out by the alcohol. He takes the glass, and Sherlock lets his fingers brush over Watson’s as he releases it to him.

“You cannot sleep,” Sherlock says, retaking his seat.

“Have you trained under the great detective Sherlock Holmes?” Watson remarks, but there’s no grit to his words so Sherlock dismisses them.

“He and I are passing acquaintances,” he returns.

Watson takes a deep drink and settles back in the armchair. “I did sleep, a little. Sometimes the quiet makes what’s up here all the more loud.” He taps his temple and gives a smile that’s more like a grimace.

It’s rare that Watson mentions the nightmares he still gets from the war, so Sherlock just nods, not pushing the subject. Watson won’t speak further of it anyway.

“I think I will have that cigarette after all,” Watson says, holding out his hand.

Sherlock flicks his in to the fire and takes out two, lights them both, and hands one over. He feels that familiar twist, but more intense knowing the cigarette has gone from his mouth to Watson’s. He reaches up and rubs his forehead. Leave it be, he tells himself. You cannot risk the only friend you have.

“You should probably get some sleep of your own,” Watson says. “Whilst you have the chance.”

“Oh I couldn’t sleep, even if I tried,” Sherlock dismisses. “Which is why I’m awake driving my own brother away.”

“We all must have our hobbies.” Watson flashes a brief smile. “Did he have anything to say about your case?”

“Yes. Very helpful. Tomorrow... well, later today, we shall review my notes. He needs to have time to let the cogs whirl, as it were.”

Watson takes a deep drag of his cigarette, the paper catching on his bottom lip. He runs his tongue over the spot, and Sherlock can feel his breath catch, his attention focusing entirely on the movement. Then he stands quickly and walks across the room, pretending to examine the stacks of books as he wills his body to quit reacting to even the simplest, most mundane of Watson’s actions.

“Maybe after this case is over you should come up here for a long rest,” Watson suggests. “You’re on edge.”

“Because I’m searching for a murderer,” Sherlock points out.

“No, it’s not that,” Watson disagrees. “You’ll catch him, of course. This one may be tricky, but he doesn’t seem that far flung from your usual type, just a little out of your areas of expertise. You’ve been working non stop for months now. You should come up here for a few weeks and rest.”

“Should I really,” Sherlock mutters. “And leave London in the capable hands of Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson?”

“And me,” Watson adds.

Sherlock frowns, and he’s glad that his back is to Watson. Leave him behind? But then, what holiday would it be? Who would he talk to? Not his brother, who would be gone on his walks day after day. He had never considered that any sort of vacation would not involve Watson.

“Yes,” he says softly. “And you, of course.” He takes a deep breath and turns around, and he knows his smile looks fake because it feels stretched and thin. “Well, that’s my mind settled. I shall make the bookings in the morning.”

Watson just rolls his eyes and holds out his glass. “Another, if you would.” He tosses the butt end of his cigarette in the fire. “And for the love of God, either tell me what’s got you in such a mood or pretend as if you’re fine with a little more sincerity.”

Sherlock pauses in pouring out the brandy, then drinks what’s in the glass in one gulp before refilling it and taking it to his friend. “I’d rather keep my secrets, if you don’t mind,” he says and paces for a moment before sitting.

“Look, Holmes, whatever it is that’s been bothering you lately, well, I am your friend,” Watson says. “You must know you can trust me, whatever it is.”  
Sherlock stares into the fire in silence for a long time, watching until it begins to die. “I am glad you are my friend,” he finally speaks up. “Never think that I am not, Watson.” He doesn’t look over at Watson, not wanting to see whatever reaction may be covering Watson’s face. Perhaps widening his blue eyes, his lips parting in surprise. Sherlock closes his eyes against the image, but only finds it reinforced against his eyelids. “I would not willingly or knowingly do anything that would risk your friendship toward me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do to do that,” Watson says. “If you haven’t after this long, then I don’t see what could possibly end our friendship.”  
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says, and this time with a genuine smile, small though it is.

“Whatever it is you have to say, just say it,” Watson continues. “After we first met, Inspector Gregson said you are an abrupt man, and so you see why this hesitation of yours is disturbing. Be abrupt, for god’s sake. I can handle it.”

“No,” Sherlock decides after another long pause. “Not yet, at least. I think I’ll keep my silence, just for now, anyway.”

“You, silent?” Watson laughs and stands. “Very well. I think I’ll try and get some more sleep, then.”

Sherlock is startled when Watson claps him on the shoulder, and feels a rush of affection for his friend. He reaches up before Watson can remove his hand and wraps his fingers around it, then pulls it to his mouth and presses a soft kisses into his palm. He releases Watson then and looks away, feels a rush of shame at losing control enough to express himself in such a way.

He is beyond grateful and relieved when Watson simply strokes the back of his hand over Holmes’ cheek, then withdraws from the room. When he hears the door shut softly, he covers his cheek with his hand, the skin there burning from the brief contact, the feel of Watson’s palm still pressed into his lips. He takes a deep breath and shudders, then gets up and goes to his brother’s library, knowing he won’t be able to sleep tonight.

* * *

“Ah, good morning, Dr Watson,” Sherringford greets, walking into the kitchen.

John looks up from his breakfast of an egg and bacon butty. He needs something to fortify himself when he knows he has to spend the day fighting off the urge to pin Holmes to the nearest flat surface and ravish him. “Good morning,” he returns. “I just made some tea.”

Sherringford rubs his hands together and pours a cup. “Lovely. I usually have to make my own on the weekends. I make terrible tea.”

“According to Holmes, so do I.”

“According to Sherlock, nearly everyone does. This Mrs Hudson is the only one I’ve heard of recently that makes an acceptable cup,” Sherrinford says with a laugh. “Don’t tell me that’s the last of the bacon. I’ll be devastated.”

“No, plenty more,” John assures him. “Any luck on the case with Holmes?”

“Some, some. I’ll put it to him when he wakes up and peels himself off the library couch. I’m not sure when that will be, as I couldn’t say when he went to sleep last night.” Sherringford sits at the kitchen table with John. “Did you sleep well?”

“No, not particularly. It was after three when I left him and went back to bed.”

“You spoke to him last night? He was in a bit of a mood.”

“To put it mildly,” John agrees. He finishes off the sandwich and stares down at his plate, deep in though. Yes, Holmes had been in quite the mood. Introspective and torn. It was frustrating, waiting for him to move past whatever had him so conflicted. He knows Holmes is attracted to him, loves him as his friend, and he doesn’t know quite why Holmes can’t just admit that. He makes a noise of frustration and refills his teacup.

“Is there a problem?” Sherringford asks.

John shakes his head. “Sherringford, why, why won’t Holmes just...say anything to me?” he finally asks.

Sherringford raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you say something to him?”

“You know him, he’s your brother. Some things you just can’t say to him. You have to wait for him to say something, act on it.” And if asking Holmes’ older brother about this wasn’t awkward, he didn’t know what was. But he had to ask, he had to figure this out before it drove him completely insane, and he was unlikely to find someone else so accepting of the situation.

“Perhaps he has, just in a way you may have missed. He can be very understated at times, Doctor. Whatever it is may be a small gesture to you, but to Sherlock it is everything.”

Like the way he kissed your hand last night, John thought, and he closed his fingers over that spot on his hand, remembering the feel of it. He’d thought it would have been too embarrassing to Holmes for him to mention it, to draw the moment out. But perhaps that’s what he should have done.

“I see it on your face that you know exactly what I mean,” Sherringford says and finishes his tea. “I hoped I had gotten through his thick skull. Contemplate your new insight into my brother’s mind; you are in an unique position to do so. I shall take my morning walk.”

“Yes. Thank you, I think,” John says, and stays at the table for awhile after Sherringford leaves. On retrospect he can see that it was Holmes’ own type of declaration, and John thinks he likely responded to it in the best possible way. It wouldn’t have been the right time to have done more. He didn’t want to move too quickly. If Holmes was feeling so unsure, John needed to make him feel comfortable with this first.

It is the empty tea pot that eventually gets him up. He takes a few minutes to wash up as he waits for another pot to brew, and when he is done he turns to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. He looks tired and his hair is more a mess than usual, his white shirt rumpled, his hands resting in his pockets.

“I just made tea,” John says, bringing the pot over to the table.

“I must have toast,” Sherlock says after a hesitation, and comes in and sits down.

“You know where the bread and the oven are,” John replies.

“What business does my brother have in giving his housekeeper and cook the entire weekend off,” Sherlock says, and doesn’t get up.

“Perhaps he wanted to give you some peace and privacy?” John suggests.

“Nonsense. He’s always done this. Every Saturday and Sunday. I don’t see the point in it.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive. Somehow.”

“I’ll starve at this rate. I smell bacon. Did you make bacon and not save any for me?”

“Mmhm,” John hums, pouring himself a cup of tea. “There’s plenty left in the icebox, but your brother did say he wanted some when he returns from his walk.” If nothing else will get Holmes to make his own breakfast, that will, John thinks, and knows he’s given his motives away by the way Holmes is eyeing him. “Just make your damn bacon and eggs, Holmes, for god’s sake.”

“God has no say in this matter,” Holmes snaps and gets up. “My stomach is the only thing that seems to be dictating terms right now.”

John sips his tea, relegating Holmes’ grumblings to background noise until he finally sits at the table again with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. “Did you leave any for your brother?” he asks.

“Why should I? If he wanted some he should have had it earlier.” Holmes begins to eat, drinking his tea in gulps, until both tea and breakfast are gone.

John’s already done the washing up, again, by the time Holmes is finished, and he’s pulling his sleeves back down when Holmes pats his stomach and stands, stretches. For all that he can be something of a slob, Holmes is remarkably fit, as John has noted on many occasions. The way his shirt rides up, exposing his muscled stomach, makes John clench his hands under the table. He doesn’t look away quickly enough this time though, his mind straying to the way Holmes kissed his hand last night, and Holmes catches him looking. There’s a moment when they both freeze, not sure how to proceed, until Holmes slowly lowers his arms with something like embarrassment, and clears his throat.

“Yes, well. I suppose I should make some attempt to...” He trails off and waves a hand, vaguely indicating his state of dress.

John raises the teacup, smiling behind it. “Oh, no need to put yourself out on my behalf,” he says, somewhat daringly because he’s still not entirely sure of how Holmes will react to him being so blatant. But he won’t apologise for staring.

Holmes fidgets for a moment, then turns and walks out of the kitchen without another word.

John finishes his tea before stepping outside to wander around the grounds. He doesn’t see Holmes again for a few hours, and then it’s through the library window, bent over something with Sherringford.

He leaves them to it, still not entirely sure why Holmes brought him up here. He can add nothing to this case, no insight, no observations. It isn’t like Holmes. He decides not to think of it, and returns inside to help himself to a slice of the cold pork pie in the larder for lunch, which he eats sitting out on the patio.

He reads the paper, taking his time in a way he rarely is able to do anymore, until Holmes takes the seat across from him with a dramatic sigh. John waits several moments and takes a drink of tea before asking, without lowering the paper, if they’d made any progress.

“Despite his reluctance to admit that I was right about which tree it was that I broke my leg climbing in, yes,” Holmes answers. “Where’s my cup? Didn’t you bring me any lunch along with your own? Watson, this is intolerable!”

“Oh shut up,” John says fondly. “It’s easy enough for you to take a knife and cut a simple piece of the pie. Eat something, would you? You’re more rational after you’ve eaten.”

Holmes leaves in a huff, and John isn’t surprised when he doesn’t return. He finishes the paper in rare silence, then takes it and his things back inside, finds Holmes at the kitchen table finishing his dinner.

“You didn’t come back out,” John says.

“You were being difficult,” Holmes says, pushing his empty plate away. “I’m not a child, I don’t need nagging at.”

“If I had even the slightest hint that that tactic would work I would use it on you,” John says. “As it is, it isn’t nagging when I refuse to be your maid.”

Holmes eyes him critically for a moment. “No, I don’t think the dress is your style,” he comments, and John can’t help but smile.

“You found what you were looking for here, then?” he asks.

“Yes yes.”

“Should we not return, then? I’m sure Gregson is awaiting your news.”

“Oh, Sherringford has already gone into town to send the telegram. He insisted that I not be seen about in such a disastrous state.” Holmes rolls his eyes to show how ridiculous he thinks the matter is and John decides to withhold comment. “No, I had told my brother we will be returning Monday morning when I arranged to come up here. He’d never let me hear the end of it if I were to leave early.”

“Sherlock Holmes, taking a vacation? Unheard of.”

“I’m not on vacation, I’m... fulfilling familial duties,” Holmes says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

John leans back on the table at Holmes’ side. “Call it whatever you want,” he allows, looking over at his friend. “It’s still a vacation.”

“Call it whatever you want, but it isn’t,” Holmes protests. “On what sort of vacation do I have to make my own tea?”

“Is that a hint that you’d like me to make you some?” John asks, amused to see the irritation growing on Holmes’ face.

“I can make my own tea, thank you,” Holmes says. “But if you had planned to make some for yourself, I’d certainly not refuse a cup.”

“If I make you tea, this becomes a vacation,” John pushes, trying not to laugh.

Holmes blows out a loud breath and crosses his arms over his chest. “I do not care what you want to call it. Yes, this is a vacation. My tea now, if you please.”

John puts the kettle on the stove and prepares the teapot, then returns to where he’d been leaning on the table. “So what was the final outcome, then? Who did it?”

“Hm? Oh, the sailor. Well travelled. I simply needed to know which species of butterfly the dust on one of the victims came from. Dust from the wings of a butterfly, most assuredly.”

“And you had to find out which butterfly, to match it to him?” John asks.

“Yes. I needed my brother's expertise to determine which butterfly, and that particular colour happens to only come from an exotic species, which the murderer had in his collection, and had recently handled.”

John goes to take the kettle off the stove and pours it into the teapot, over the loose leaves. “That’s sorted, then. I have to say, your brother is much more personable than you and Mycroft.”

“He could do no wrong in the eyes of our parents. He even managed to hide his, ah, proclivities from our parents. They died expecting him to marry and have many children, heirs to the family seat. At least they don’t have to live to see all three of their sons eschew such a way of life,” Holmes says and breathes deeply the steam from the tea as John sets the cup in front of him. “Thank you, Watson.”

“You’re quite welcome. I think I’ll take this time to have something of a rest,” John says, because it’s either that or he’s going to push aside that tea and make Holmes thank him for other reasons. It’s the euphoric look on Holmes’ face as he takes the first sip that has John hurrying from the kitchen and up to his rooms.

He manages to fall asleep fairly quickly, due to his lack of sleep the previous evening, and wakes to the smell of tobacco, instantly recognising it as Holmes’ blend. He lays there in silence for several moments, letting disjointed dreams fade, until Holmes’ feet thud to the floor. By the window, then. Feet had been up on the sill, which means he’d moved the chair.

“It’s no use, I know you’re awake,” Holmes says, and John wants to squeeze his eyes shut just to spite him. “I could tell you were waking up by the change in your rate of breathing several minutes ago.”

“What are you doing here?” John asks and rolls over onto his other side so he can face Holmes. He watches as Holmes’ lips press together and his jaw clenches for just a moment before the expression is gone. He falls onto his back and holds up his arms, rolling up the sleeves.

“You, ah, mentioned you slept badly last night,” Holmes says, and John can hear the way his voice catches. “I wouldn’t have heard you elsewhere in the house in case you needed anything. It’s not like I’m busy at this moment.”

John finishes his sleeves and laces his hands together over his chest. It’s telling that Holmes doesn’t think to apologise for this intrusion, and also, John decides after some thought, that he doesn’t even consider Holmes’ presence in his room to be an intrusion.

“Your presence must have helped,” he says to Holmes. “I slept quite well.”

“Yes, if your snoring was anything to go by,” Holmes mutters and puts out his cigarette.

“I don’t snore. Someone would have told me by now,” John says.

“Unless they were asleep as well?” Holmes just shrugs. “Now that you’re awake you can get whatever you may need yourself,” he says and stands.

“No, stay,” John requests quickly, holding out a hand to beckon Holmes back. “Unless you have things to do? I don’t feel like getting up yet. Stay and talk to me.” Anything, he thinks. Just stay. Let us keep this moment for as long as we can.

“About what? Perhaps you’d like more details so that you can include them in a future publication?” But he does come back, reaching out to brush his fingertips over John’s still outstretched hand as he passes and retakes his seat.

John recrosses his hands on his chest, the feeling of that touch burning along his nerves. “Later, later. Or you could write it down for me.” He always requests that, but Holmes loves the sound of his voice too much to resist lecturing about one of his cases. He lays there in silence, just knowing that Holmes is searching his mind desperately for a subject, unable to find one to actually converse about. “Have you managed to procure the programme for the new season of the opera?” he asks finally, taking pity on Holmes.

“Yes, and tickets,” Holmes replies immediately. “Of course plans may change sooner to the events. But this time I am prepared.”

“You bought tickets more than a day ahead?” John gives a low whistle. “I am impressed.”

“You did mention that habit of mine. Several times. I don’t always ignore what you say, Watson.”

“If I thought you did I wouldn’t stay,” John says.

Holmes turns the chair to face the bed and sits again, propping his feet up on the bed, and John tries not to, but he can’t help reaching out to rub his fingers on the velvet slippers. He keeps his eyes firmly on his hand, even though he wants to see Holmes’ face, see the emotions flicker across as they manifest and he tries to hide them. He can almost see them in his mind, anyway. He only does it for a moment, his fingertips just brushing over the skin on the top of Holmes’ foot, before he pulls his hand away and rolls to lay on his back again. It takes all of his willpower to not simply sit up and pull Holmes onto the bed and into his arms.

“Well,” Holmes says after a few minutes of silence. “It must be getting close to supper.”

“As if you eat with anything resembling a regular schedule,” John says. “It’s a rare thing that you remember to eat more than once a day.” But when Holmes stands and extends a hand, John takes it and pulls himself up, swings his legs off the bed. Holmes holds on to John’s hand for a moment longer before pulling his away slowly.

John stands, noting that Holmes hasn’t moved back, and that bare inches separate them; they stand like that for an eternity before Holmes takes a step back and gives a shaky smile.

“I’m not making your supper for you,” John says, and bends to locate his boots under the bed. “Go get the tea started, will you? And ask your brother what there is.”

“My brother is capable of finding his own supper,” Holmes says and sweeps out of the room.

John just shakes his head and fishes his boots out, then sits to put them on.

* * *

Supper turns out to be a quiet, somewhat tense affair. Sherringford declines to join them, busy in his study, so Watson lays out some of what is still stocked in the pantry, and a pot of tea. He risks a few glances over at Holmes, who has his eyes pinned to his plate. It was a mistake, he decides, thinking of the way he’d touched Holmes earlier. It was too bold a move and too soon, and hopes he hasn’t wrecked whatever chance he may have had. He should have known by how flustered Holmes had been at breakfast when he’d caught John staring at him.

“We should take a walk through the grounds,” he says, although all attempts at conversation thus far have been met with only the barest acknowledgement and no attempt to continue discussion. “Not tonight, it’s already gone dark. But in the morning.”

Holmes gives a vague wave of his hand, still holding his fork, and the piece of ham on the end of it threatens to fly off. “My brother dislikes company on his walks,” he dismisses.

“I hadn’t intended to ask him to accompany us,” John says. “You could show me the things you remember. If you’d like.” He glances over again, sees that Holmes is sat staring at nothing, the utensils in his hands resting against the plate.

“Yes, fine,” Holmes agrees, coming back to himself with a slight jolt. “Although I don’t see how my childhood is of any interest to you.” And he sets himself to finishing the food.

“It’s a part of you,” John explains with a shrug. “And I’m interested in you.” And he has a moment, a fleeting moment, when he regrets the statement completely. Holmes freezes, his eyes going wide; but then he nods sharply, once, and doesn’t speak.

John does the washing up, then joins Holmes in the drawing room. He hasn’t bothered to roll his sleeves down, and when he sits in the chair opposite Holmes, he notes the way his eyes linger on John’s forearms. John refuses the proffered cigarette case, and puts his feet up on the footstool with a sigh.

“I think I’ve become spoilt from Mrs Hudson always doing the washing up,” he says. “I’m not used to doing it.”

“I imagine that before you become too used to it you’ll find a wife and she’ll do it for you,” Holmes comments.

John laughs at the unlikely occurrence. “I should like to meet the woman who would tolerate me running off at all hours on cases with you,” he says. But in truth he wouldn’t. He has no desire for one.

“You’ll be tired of all this by then,” Holmes says, his voice suddenly sharp and harsh.

John frowns, and wonders if this is the cause of Holmes’ mood, the reason why he has been so standoffish in declaring himself. “I don’t think I will ever tire of this,” he tells Holmes. “And I don’t want to find a woman who will merely tolerate you. I don’t want to find a woman at all. I’m quite happy as I am.” He doesn’t know how else to say it, to make it more clear.

Holmes flicks the end of his cigarette into the fire with a huff. “You say that. But one day a beautiful woman with golden hair will come into your life and whisk you away.”

“What?” John leans forward, confusion in every word. “What makes you think that? And I don’t even care for blonds. I prefer darker hair.” Like yours. Black, with silver shot through it, so tempting, just waiting for me to push my hands through it, John thinks, and his fingers twitch for wanting to do it.

“Dark, pale, red as fire,” Holmes snaps and jumps to his feet to pace the room. “It matters not. A man such as you cannot feel complete without a doting wife and several children scrambling about to prove his virility. You tell me you do not want that?”

“Holmes, I don’t know why you’ve suddenly ventured down this path of thought,” John says, trying to keep his voice soft so he won’t upset Holmes any more. “But I can tell you, in all truth and honesty, that I do not want that.”

Holmes stops in his paces and turns back to fix John with his sharp, intense stare. And then it’s as if all the anger vanishes from him and his shoulders sag, and he looks so worn, so tired to John’s eyes. Holmes retakes his seat and lights another cigarette, though it mostly burns out to ash between his fingers, unsmoked, until Holmes tosses it into the fire.

“You truly do no want that?” he finally asks, his voice quiet, and John doesn’t think he’s heard Holmes sound quite so confused before.

“Truly,” John assures him, and leans back in his chair. “Can you imagine it? I’d wither away from boredom, Holmes. And what good would a wife do me? She could never hold my affections. Not when they are already taken.” And that’s all he can do. He’s put himself out plainly, all-but confessed himself to Holmes. He can only hope that Holmes can see that, and let himself relax enough to do the same.

But Holmes just stares in to the fire, his elbow propped on the arm of his chair, his chin resting in his hand, silent for a long stretch of time. John doesn’t speak, letting Holmes have his silence and his thoughts, and he just relaxes in the chair. His eyes must have closed at some point, and he’s half asleep in a warm and comfortable doze when he feels the softest touch on his cheek. A finger, tracing over one of the old scars on his face, a small one, from the explosion when they were chasing Blackwood.

“What have I ever done to earn your affection?” Holmes asks then, and John takes a few moments before answering because he’s still coming out of his sleep.

“You exist,” he says simply, and looks up at Holmes, who is cataloguing each scar on John’s face with his eyes and his fingers. “And you have captivated me with everything that you are.”

“Despite my black moods, and erratic behaviour?”

“Not despite of them, because of them,” John corrects, and reaches up to catch Holmes’ hand, to press a kiss to the centre of his palm, just as Holmes had done to him the previous night. “They are part of who you are,” he says against the skin, then turns his face so Holmes’ palm slides across his cheek. “I would not ask you to change for me. I don’t know that I would want you to.”

“John, you tempt me,” Holmes breathes, his words barely audible, and the sound of his name from those lips makes John’s breath hitch, makes his fingers close tightly around Holmes’ hand.

“I’m trying to,” John says. “I’ve been trying to for so long.” He wants to stand, to finally push his hands into that thick dark hair and kiss Holmes, but he still doesn’t know how Holmes would take such a forward move. But he does stand, keeping a-hold of Holmes’ hand. “But I don’t know what you want, and I don’t know what to do except be here and hope what I say doesn’t make you withdraw from me.”

Sherlock turns away, pulling his hand free as he does so, and clasps his hands behind his back and crosses the room. “Nothing you say or do makes me withdraw from you,” he says softly, turning his head just slightly so John can hear him. “It is the way I feel when you touch me, or when you speak words of kindness.” He raises a hand to his mouth, and John can see a slight tremor there. Nerves? From Holmes? “I fear to reciprocate. Everyone tires of me in time, Watson, and you shall also. I will not commit my affections to someone when I know that they will leave.”

Leave? John shakes his head and crosses to Holmes’ side. “Holmes, Sherlock, I will never leave, not unless I am dead. And I do sincerely hope that doesn’t happen anytime soon. No one will drag me from your side, certainly no woman.” He reaches out, hesitates, then decides to hell with it and closes his hand around Holmes’ bicep. “Look at me, Sherlock. Stop hiding from me.” He tries to turn him, but Holmes resists for a moment before turning.

“Everyone leaves,” Holmes repeats.

“I’m not everyone. Have you ever met anyone you have tolerated this long? For god’s sake, Sherlock, do you want to die knowing you could have had this and didn’t?”

“I won’t let this ruin our friendship!” Holmes shouts, stamping his foot. “I cannot lose that, Watson. I cannot let riotous, unpredictable physiological imbalances be the thing that drives you from me!”

John stares at him with wide eyes, stunned by the outburst that is almost childish. “Ruin our friendship?” he repeats, unable to think of anything else. Then he squares his shoulders. “You have so little faith in me that you think I would let anything ruin that?”

“I have so little faith in me,” Holmes stresses.

“Bloody fool,” John mutters, and takes the only course of action he can possibly think of. He gives in and pushes his hands in to Sherlock’s hair, twists his fingers in the strands and holds him still, and kisses him.

Sherlock tries to push away at first, his hands flat on John’s chest, but John knows that Sherlock can so easily get away if he truly wants to. He licks across Sherlock’s lips, lifts his head for just a moment, and Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, which is what John had hoped for. He kisses Sherlock again, slips his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and runs his tongue over Sherlock’s tongue, tastes tobacco and scotch before withdrawing to catch Sherlock’s bottom lips in his teeth.

At that Sherlock groans, and his hands fist in John’s shirt and pull John closer. Finally, John thinks. Oh god, finally. And then Sherlock is returning the kiss with such heat, such a passion that John cannot think anymore. But it only lasts a few seconds before Sherlock pulls away quickly, freeing himself easily, stumbling back until he hits the couch with the backs of his legs and falls heavily to sit on it.

“No, don’t come over here,” he says to John, holding up a shaking hand. “Let me gather my wits.”

“I don’t want you to gather your wits,” John growls and kneels on the couch, straddling Sherlock’s lap. He pushes his hands back into Sherlock’s hair and takes his mouth again. He can’t stop, not now, maybe not ever. Not when he knows that Sherlock returns what he’s feeling, that only his fear prevents him from seeking this out. He has to show Sherlock that there is nothing to fear from him.

“John,” Sherlock groans, and turns his head away again. “Please, don’t. I cannot kiss you. I cannot stop there.”

John lets out a frustrated noise and pulls one hand from Sherlock’s hair to take Sherlock’s hand and press it to John’s very obvious erection. “Does that feel like I want you to stop at a kiss?” he asks against the side of Sherlock’s neck. “Or does it feel like I want you to do everything to me that you can think of?”  
Sherlock’s fingers close around John’s cock through the layers of clothes, and his eyes flutter closed. “You must tell me what you want, John,” he says, his voice low and rough, and John can’t help but press another kiss to Sherlock’s mouth before he answers.

“You want me to say it to you?” he asks. “Must you hear it plainly before you will do these things to me? With me? Is it not enough that I am here, like this?”

“I need to hear you say it,” Sherlock insists, and he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting John’s.

So John holds the gaze, refuses to let Sherlock hide between closed eyes. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, his voice dropping low. “With your fingers and your mouth and tongue and your cock, and I want to fuck you in every way you will let me. I want your mouth around my cock, and your hand on my cock.” He shudders as Sherlock presses hard against his erection. “And in any way you want to take me, Sherlock. Any way that I have not imagined, and there are so many ways I have imagined. Any way that you want, that can possibly be done, I want them all from you.”

“You have no idea the things I have imagined,” Sherlock hisses, his gaze terrified, and his eyes so wide. “Some of the things I want to do to you are so debase, John.”

“And I want them, still,” John assures Sherlock, and kisses him again. “But for now, just for this moment, Sherlock, if you would be so kind as to take my cock in hand, I would be most grateful.”

“As long as you see fit to reciprocate in time,” Sherlock says after a brief silence, and when John kisses him again, it is with Sherlock’s complete cooperation.

*

Sherlock cannot recall when he last woke feeling so contented. His entire body feels relaxed, and also aching in several interesting places. He lays there, still, with the sun coming through the window and slanting over him, and over John, who is still sleeping heavily at his side, sprawled over half the bed.

Sherlock turns on his side, muscles pulling. It hurts, but it reminds him that he has someone willing to do what he wants, what he needs, even though it has these consequences. He stares at John, at his face relaxed in sleep. Sherlock reaches out and his fingers hover over the bruises mottling his upper arm, around his wrist. The sight of them makes his fingers twitch, makes him want to trace soft lines of kisses across John’s skin. He feels a moment of panic, of guilt, and he wonders if John will hate him when he wakes up, if he’ll regret the night and if he’ll curse Sherlock and his own perversion and leave, never to return.

John wakes up then, his breath catching and his eyelashes fluttering. He lets out a groan, long and low, and his eyes open and meet Sherlock’s. “Morning,” he says and moves carefully, obviously feeling his sore muscles.

“Morning,” Sherlock returns, and it’s only a matter of time now. The night will come back, and he’ll be disgusted... He sees the moment the recollections start flashing in John’s mind, but there’s no disgust registering, only widening of eyes, pupil dilation, yes, the hitch of breath. John reaches out and slips a hand behind Sherlock’s neck, holding him in place as leans forward and kisses him.

Unexpected, Sherlock thinks, but returns the kiss in kind. “No second thoughts?” he asks softly when John falls back on the bed.

“If you mean, am I doubting my actions that brought us to this moment, then no. Not a single one of them. You, Sherlock Holmes, are a spectacular fuck.”  
Sherlock wonders if John knows how much of an effect his words have. If he knows that Sherlock would do anything just to hear a single compliment, a kind word, from those lips. He sees the humour, the affection in John’s eyes and in his smile and yes, of course John knows.

“Let’s stay in bed,” Sherlock suggests. “For the morning at least. And then I will need tea.”

“And you can take me on that walk,” John adds.

“I look forward to it,” Sherlock agrees, then pushes John over on to his back and stretches out over him and kisses him.


End file.
